Chasing balloons and the man with the golden scalpel

I always loved Grey's Anatomy - love the big words they give to relatively simple conditions, the drama, the swooning, the life-saving surgeries. It kept me fascinated for hours.

So when I met a real life surgeon AND he, ever so casually invited me to watch surgery I was beyond excited...Now before you all think that he meant something else, he didn't! This was all in a legitimate pursuit of journalism. (See below for really horrific story of epic flirting failure for those of you who are intrigued by my love life)   In any event...where was I? O yes, surgery. So with a long quizzical look the surgeon in question first ask me... You are not squeemish are you? I snorted in mock toughness. Reckoned it will take too long to explain that I faint at the sight of blood and therefore will not exactly be a good man in a theatre storm. Being a veteran crime reporter I have to add that I don't mind dead people, not even horribly mangled ones. The ones that are actively bleeding, however, tend to make me pass out.  

I doubt that the lovely surgeon, who was at stage literally chasing balloons in the peadiatrics ward, was convinced. "Just sit down if you feel faint," he said. I also want a surgeon who likes to chase balloons if I ever need to go under the knife. So when we get to the theatre we were given horribly green theatre scrubs, caps, blue booties for the shoes. My green scrubs thing was a bit big, so it wasn't my most stylish moment. Then we were allowed inside with strict instructions not to touch anything green. I clenched my hands together as instructions like that makes me want to touch green things.   Not going to bore you with the details of the surgery as I hope you all read it in the paper.

I have learned a number of things:  
· It is every bit as exciting as Grey's Anatomy.
· Nurses are lovely people. I had my tonsils out when I was three and always thought of nurses as lovely though scary wrinkly women with hands like gnarled branches- but these ones were a lively, chatty, slightly gossipy bunch.
· Nobody shouted "stat" but I guess that was a good thing. 
· The one surgeon had a golden scalpel. For some reason that made me very happy.
· If you look away during the gross bits of surgery there is no reason to faint. This, however, I guess is not a good plan if you are the surgeon.
· If you want to know the hospital gossip, ask the anaethetist.
· Surgeons do sometimes nick their gloves but then will make a slightly embarrased joke about it and get new ones.
· They will make you wear a mask which is downright horrible. Mine was a bit big so you could only see my eyes. I looked like an idiot in a badly fitting mask.
· If you take the wrong lift you will end up in a part of Provincial Hospital that is so downright scary that I have no words but might have a story or two if I can find it again.

So once we were done and escorted out by twinkly eyed, balloon-chasing surgeon, he said: You didn't faint. I was convinced you would.Well done. Have a balloon. Dignity intact, I left.

So this morning when I go to see another lovely paediatric surgeon about something else, he chuckled. (As small aside fainted in his surgery last week as I tend when coming face to face with actively bleeding children). Turns out that some people underestimated my resilience. Ha."I hear you didn't faint in surgery yesterday, so I have come to the conclusion that we have better lollipops here."  

Indeed doctor. Indeed.  

PS It is not only a vicious rumour that I can write the book on lawyers. Am working on a Understand your Attorney - a novice's guide. They have, however, been on my no-date list for a while. So when one, ridiculously attractive one sent me a shirtless picture of himself with the question: Any comments? I wasn't really thinking of flirting.  
"You must have been cold" I said, considering Cape Town's current weather.
"No, try again," the answer came.
"You were robbed?" I tried again.
"No. One more chance," he wrote back.
"No. I give up."
"I HAVE A NEW TATTOO," he texted, clearly enraged. AND YOU ARE IMPOSSIBLE TO FLIRT WITH!"
Indeed. Nothing I said afterwards helped. Am clearly doomed.

Know all the precedent cases for specific performance under contract law and not a single rule of flirting. Crap. Off to watch more surgeries seems safer...

A three duck hole and a bit of purple prose

The recent rain in Port Elizabeth has left me with a medium-sized relatively shallow hole in my driveway.  As this is Port Elizabeth and not Cape Town where rain water elegantly disappears, the rain also caused mud and puddles and other weather-related hazards, like a medium-sized hole filled with water in the middle of my driveway.

 

Normally I just drive around it unless my somewhat-iffy driving skills desert me and then I just drive through it. The lovely owner of the farm saw it as well and now wants to cover it up. Great landlord that he is - I first said yes and now I am sorry.  To establish the scale of the problem lovely landlord phoned me.

 

"How big is the hole,"he asked.

 

"I don't know," I answered.

 

"How can you not know?"he asked.

 

"I haven't measure it. But if you allow for a tight squeeze it will fit three fat ducks," I answered.

 

Silence followed. "What do you mean three fat ducks?" he then queried - rather hestitatingly.

 

"There are three fat ducks sort of swimming in it. They can't really swim, so they mostly just splash around in it." I am still trying to find a word for "squeezing ducky-self into medium-sized hole filled with water and simultaneously trying to get rid of other two ducks in medium sized hole as to make the swimming experience slightly more comfortable."

 

More silence. (Landlord clearly getting with the new metric system)

 

"Are they swimming bum to bum or bum to head?"

 

"Bum to head."

"Ok, got it,"he says. (I can imagine making a note to go measure hole as soon as crazy tenant left for ).

When I came home he had left a note on my door. "Three-swimming-duck-sized-hole fixed.  Will fix one-fat-pig-sized hole in fence soonest."

Love that man to bits.

Wish all my problems were that easy to sort out. My favourit nail polish is a pale purple-grey called Lucky Lavender.

In Cape Town Lucky Lavender is considered highly popular. There is something akin to the running of the bulls in better shoes if the local salon gets it in as it is fairly scarce. In Port Elizabeth some beauty guru - am still trying to figure out who the hell it was - has declared that "purple" nails look like the wearer is ill or devoid of oxygen or very cold.

 

Now "Lucky Lavender" is not purple. It is a gorgeous creamy colour that reminds one of of the lavender fields in France. It is elegant and fun and goes with almost all outfits and most of all it makes me happy. Except that because of the above beauty edict I have to jump through flaming hoops to find a bottle of Lucky Lavender in PE - and now have all my spies in Cape Town on high alert with immediate instructions to buy all availble bottles should it be spotted on the shelves.

You can imagine my surprise though when I visited a spa in Port Elizabeth for the necessary maintenance-related spa-activities when the therapist exclaimed: "Oooo I love the colour on your nails."

"Lucky Lucky Lavender," I replied.

"We must so get it for the shop," she said.

"So you must, I agreed, whipping out bottle with the right codes and everything else.

Clearly dealing with almost anything over here is like a three duck hole - you either sink, swim or get stuck between two other ducks unless your nails are a gorgeous lilac.